Mr. Peanut (40 page)

Then: “And put your jammies on now.”

He slept.

In the mornings she was always up before him, making him breakfast. “Dickie, come down and eat.”

It was Christine’s fault, he thought to himself now. It was the reason he was
nothing
, was no Dr. Sam, but he could be. All wasn’t lost. You could still
be surprised by life. Marilyn had proved this to him. He would tell her all this next week and she wouldn’t be afraid. Which was the key: finding one who wasn’t afraid, who believed in him. He was sure it was her. He could talk with her, could tell her his secret, and she could tell him hers. For everybody had one, didn’t they?

There was time after finishing at the Bradfords’ for lunch, so he drove back to Huntington Park, parking where he had that morning, the Sheppard house vacant so far as he could tell from here, and he suddenly felt anxious, full of doubt. He’d removed his prizes from his coveralls, from the pail, resting them on the dash to dry out, and though shiny and glinting they seemed paltry to him. Cheap. Marilyn would look at these things and not know what to say. They’d scare her.
He
would. The person in your mind, Eberling thought, isn’t the person in the world. He must realize this. He’d made that mistake many times before, with boys in the home who told on him when he touched their penises in the bathroom stalls. The girls he tried to kiss who ran screaming to the nurses. Why would Marilyn have anything to do with him in the first place? Downgrade from Dr. Sam? Sleep with the guy from Dick’s Cleaning Service? She had everything to lose, her boy and all that money, the nice house with that view, and all that unhappiness she hinted at was trumped by the previous three. He’d been a fool. He wouldn’t even bring his swim trunks on Wednesday, just arrive and go about his business. Maybe not even come. Tell her he’d completely forgotten. Maybe quit working for her altogether.

It made him mad that she’d suggested any such thing in the first place.

He started his van.

I don’t care if I ever see you again, he thought.

He was a little late to the Houks’, not that Ethel cared. Now Mrs. Houk, there was a nice lady. Somebody who never deserved anything bad happening to her. Same for Mr. Houk, not only the mayor but also the town’s best butcher, and if he was there when Eberling finished up he sometimes gave him a New York strip as a gratuity, pressing down on the cold, moist paper it was wrapped in. “Rub it in olive oil,” Houk said, “sprinkle salt and pepper liberally, then four minutes high flame, no more, each side. But the secret, the most important thing, is to let it rest. Understand? Let the meat sit for half the time it’s cooked so all the juices spread.” Houk shook his finger at Eberling, then smacked him once on the cheek, like a father might have.

Eberling was only doing Mrs. Houk’s windows today, though that was plenty to do before racing to the Humphries’, and then he was finished.

I don’t care if I never see you again, he thought, leaning out the Houks’ second-story window, then he heard someone say his name. He thought it
was Mrs. Houk and answered, and he pulled himself in to sit on the sill, waiting for his eyes to adjust, and then Marilyn emerged from that black pool.

“Hello, Mrs. Sheppard.”

She seemed a little winded, maybe from the stairs, but was smiling at him brightly, just the way she had a few days ago, and the sight of her was so overwhelming it confirmed for him that we’re afraid of what we want. He couldn’t look at her for fear he might laugh or cower, might give himself away, so he stared at the floor. She was talking very quietly. Eberling knew how sound carried in every house as if each were a fine instrument. Mrs. Houk couldn’t hear them now, but Marilyn was making sure.

“I was thinking about next week,” she said, “and I was wondering if you could come over on Monday instead.”

He could hear her swallow nervously. It was impossible that she was here, it was a dream, and he was so completely unseated he couldn’t speak.

“Come over in the afternoon,” she said. “Chip could go next door for a while. He won’t bother us.”

Eberling, still looking at the floor, was smiling too.

“Like I said, you could bring your swim trunks.” She moved closer to him. “We could play.”

He sat there silently, not moving a muscle.

“Would you like that?” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “But … ”

“But what?”

What
was that he hadn’t imagined this. It was all so much stranger, so much more wonderful, that he told her now what he’d thought all day. “I wish it were sooner,” he said. Now that it was out, he braced himself for impact. This was the penultimate step before telling her anything he wanted from here on out, and he trembled.

“I wish it were sooner too,” she said, lowering her head and speaking even more softly. “I wish it were tonight.”

He exhaled loudly, through his nostrils, and looked up, feeling suddenly angry. If this was Mrs. Bradford, none of this would mean a thing to him. But this was different entirely. This was love. “Mrs. Sheppard, will you tell me something?”

“Certainly.”

“You’re not lying to me, are you?”

“Of course not,” she said.

“You could like somebody like me?”

“Yes,” she said.

“For a long time?”

She laughed her nasty laugh, a laugh that had confidence in it, conviction. “Why not?”

He looked down again, smiling at the floor. Dr. Sam wasn’t here now, he thought. It was finally just the two of them.

“Monday, then?” she said.

He nodded.

“I have to go.”

And she left.

For the rest of his time at the Houks’ and later at the Humphries’ he went through the motions stunned. Occasionally he’d catch a glimpse of his reflection doubly reflected, like when he cleaned the mirrors in the Humphries’ bathroom and could see both his back and his profile, as if he’d come upon a stranger, and he took stock of himself. He was strong-armed, wiry, tanned from mornings and afternoons hanging out of windows. He had ideas. He’d do great things! He’d look back on this as the very beginning. He’d
always
remember it because this was the day he was surprised. When he realized that what he’d thought was impossible and unattainable had in fact been possible and attainable all along. Therefore what was beyond his grasp? What couldn’t he do?

I wish it were tonight.

He was so filled with anticipation it was almost like madness.

He went home, showered, made dinner. Ate. He drank and turned on the Indians game. The White Sox were up in the third. He drank more. He lay down in bed, tried to sleep, pulled the pillow over his head. He had another drink and decided to reorganize all the jewelry he’d taken over the last two years, rings with rings, necklaces with necklaces, and so on. He looked at his watch. Barely an hour had passed.

I wish it were tonight.

He couldn’t take it any longer.

There were fireworks tonight over the lake, the pre-Fourth show a preview of tomorrow night’s big bash. He got in his car and drove back into Bay View. So many cars were jammed into Huntington Park that he had to find a space several hundred yards away. He walked toward the lake among the crowds, the families, between fathers with children on their shoulders, then climbed down to the beach and walked toward the Sheppard house, the beach full too. It was cool, windy, and as darkness descended, the first offshore salvo rose slowly, a single missile let fly, then another, the rhythm at first almost like boys playing catch, Eberling moving between people invisibly, all eyes on the water. He made his way up from the beach on the
Houks’ stairs, cutting through their yard at the landing and now stood below the Sheppard house. They had company. Among the voices, he heard Marilyn say, “Oh.”

Watching their porch, he could see the faces of Dr. Sam and Chip, of the Sheppards’ guests—it looked like the Aherns and their two children—of Marilyn, all of them strobed by the detonations, turning white and black and red, a double image of them floating in his vision when he closed his eyes, a negative on which he now focused. Her mouth was open. The image was white.

I wish it were tonight
.

The show was building toward its climax, salvo to salvos, drumbeat to full-on rolls, and he walked directly beneath the Sheppard house and tested the crawl-space door, and once the finale was bursting, once the hundreds of upturned faces from beach to park looked like the flicker of a million dead, as black as mountains on a stormy night, Eberling removed the screwdriver from his pocket and pried the door open and stepped inside.

He’d brought his long Eveready flashlight, and after deciding on a hiding place, should one be needed, he spent his time looking through the Sheppards’ things: old waterskis and toolboxes, outboard replacement parts, boys’ bats, stacked board games. A heavy bag hung indented in the middle of the room. When the fireworks stopped he turned out the light and sat listening in the dark. It reminded him of childhood because he could hear only grownups’ voices, and after he was sure he’d slipped off to sleep he heard a door open and a light flick on, then feet creaked downstairs.

It was Dr. Sam and his boy, who was carrying the small balsa-wood airplane, broken at the wing. The doctor looked tired. He was wearing corduroy pants and a blazer, a white T-shirt underneath, and while he helped glue the wing he rested his face in one hand, yawning and talking to the boy more impatiently than he probably realized, a tone that stung Eberling for breaking the plane in the first place. They fastened a clothespin to the wing and left it resting on the worktable, then turned off the light and clomped back upstairs.

He sat in the dark, feeling like a kid who’d just triumphed at hide-and-seek, and listened to the sounds of the radio above him, the Indians game buzzing through the speaker, the announcer sounding like a taxi dispatcher with his patchy rhythms of call, then breaking out into terrific shouts, as if witnessing the start of a race or a sudden disaster, and when Eberling woke up again the house was completely silent.

I wish it were tonight
.

Or was he dreaming? He came up into the kitchen, flashlight in hand, and wandered into Dr. Sam’s study. He couldn’t help himself. He sat down in the large leather chair, which was like sitting in the arms of something strong and alive that cradled him perfectly, and then he saw the trophies across from him in the darkness. They were the doctor’s, he guessed, the plaques impossible to read but the figureheads posed midthrow or dive. He’d never won a trophy in his life and, unsure what seized him, pulled several down and broke the little gold men in half.

He came out of the study and up the small landing that led down into the living room or up into the bedrooms. He could feel a breeze off the water, and that’s when he noticed himself, reflected in the mirror over the mantel, a black figure standing bent, callow, and scared. The sight had frozen his blood, and his heart, stopped for a beat, was now racing. He looked down and at his feet saw Dr. Sam, lost in the deepest sleep on the daybed—and Eberling froze once again. He came quietly down the stairs and bent down before him, Eberling’s neck stuck forward like a lizard or a bird. They looked so much alike, like brothers, Eberling balder and darker skinned and slightly hunched whereas Sheppard lay long and tall. One good blast across the temple with the flashlight and he’d be out for good. Eberling might even tell Marilyn this. He’s down, he’d tell her; I took care of him. He won’t bother us. I’m sorry I woke you, but I couldn’t wait.

He looked up the stairs. He’d promised himself to trust his instincts, that when the moment finally presented itself he wouldn’t hesitate. It’s sooner, he’d whisper to Marilyn, covering her mouth so she couldn’t scream. It’s tonight.

He straightened up and started up the landing, but then he heard a noise and froze for the third time. It was footsteps. He stepped into the living room.

Through the windows looking out onto Lake Road, he saw a shadow at the kitchen door, and then, just before he hurried back to the basement, he heard a key sliding tooth by tooth into the lock.

“Is that your theory?” Mobius asked.

Sheppard looked at him impassively.

“Is that all you have to add?”

Sheppard shifted in his chair and then cleared his throat.

“Because you’ve already fucked up, you know that?” When Sheppard remained silent, Mobius said. “I know.”

•    •    •

Eberling stood over the both of them—Dr. Sam and Marilyn—in the bedroom, breathing so heavily at the sight, so horrified, that his heart was like a flag being ripped apart by a gale. But for that it was so quiet, so much quieter now. His cut wrist was bleeding heavily and he stood in the doorway with the flashlight slick in his hand, Eberling too afraid to turn it on. Marilyn to his left in the blackness, in her bed, pulled down to the middle of the mattress. Her pajama top was bunched near her neck, her legs hung beneath the crossbar. Her face was mashed—he could make that out now—and looked almost melted, inexpressive and glistening blackly, the black blood encircling her head like a queen’s ruff. Yet Eberling wanted to touch her. He couldn’t help it. Her torso was like a thing apart, unsullied from the neck down and pubis up, her breasts and belly as white as alabaster. It was the only part that was still
her
, and he wanted to love it; but this only made her seem more remote than ever; and he felt himself begin to cry. Sheppard lay between his legs, his head by Marilyn’s feet. He looked perfect and unblemished in his white T-shirt.

It was all so still that it was like he wasn’t here, like it was a dream, and Eberling couldn’t move, even to turn away, and let only his eyes wander. So much blood was sprayed on the white walls and right up onto the ceiling that the room looked like the negative of a star-filled sky. He
had
to
go
. But it was like he was standing on the most fragile glass, or ice on the instant of liquefying. One wrong move and everything would be irrevocably changed.

Contemplating inching backward, he felt his balance falter and almost fell. The room was like something painted all around him, his very presence something that might leave a smear, and he was nearly sobbing now. Arms out, he took a timid backward step. And then, at his feet, Sheppard groaned.